


Stumbling

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:16:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He does not know what he will say to Lord Seaworth. He has no talent with words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stumbling

**Author's Note:**

> In which I have an ill-conceived notion that if I write the worst-case scenario, George RR Martin might not have to.

Davos collapses to his knees in the middle of the courtyard and the first to his side is the Red Woman. Even Stannis can see the irony in that, but he has no time for such things. His Lord Hand, who was believed dead – _for whom he had grieved_ – is there, right in front of him. He is not alone; a wild looking boy and an even wilder looking woman are with him, standing and watching suspiciously as Lady Melisandre presses a steady hand to Lord Davos’ forehead and shakes her head. The Wall still lacks a maester and so she is all they have for now; she orders several of the men standing around idly to bear Lord Davos to a chamber. She follows without a word and Stannis is left with the strangers and his shadow, Richard Horpe, who wears such a snarl that Stannis imagines even he looks welcoming in comparison.

“What ails Lord Davos?” he asks sharply. The woman eyes him carefully, pointedly ignoring Richard, and shrugs.

“It has been a long journey…your grace. A long journey. Lord Seaworth starved for us, he did. He carried the boy when he could no longer walk.”

“And who are you?” Stannis snaps, his patience on a thread, “Who are you that my lord hand might half kill himself to bring you here?”

“I am no one,” the woman replies steadily, meeting his gaze and perhaps even returning it better, “But this is Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and heir to the North.”

Stannis knows he looks surprised, perhaps even as gormless as Robert had once looked, but this time he does not mind it. He bends and takes the boy’s face in his hands. Light blue eyes, unruly red hair – there is Tully in the child, that much is plain – but something about the sullen, low browed look is entirely of Ned Stark.

_Rickon Stark._

“Where have you been hiding?”

“Skagos,” the woman says, as casually as if she had named the Water Gardens of Dorne, “Lord Seaworth bought you the loyalty of the North. Lord Manderly rallies them even as we speak.”

_Davos. Davos comes back to me and he brings an army. My onion knight, come to save my life once more._

“And all that ails Lord Davos is tiredness?” Stannis says, “No injury?”

“None as such.”

It is not the sort of answer he likes.

“Speak plainly, woman.”

“A dragon,” she says, for the first time in the conversation seeming to be struggling, “A young one but a dragon anyway. Lord Seaworth, his wife and his little ones…they got in the way. We heard from a friend of Lord Seaworth. His wife and boys…they’re dead, your grace.”

The woman says no more but she does not need to. He leaves her and the boy with Richard, to take them to the stewards for a room. He must find Davos. He must – he must what? Thank him? Apologise? Beg his forgiveness? He does not know.

He does not know.

Six sons and a wife. That is what Lord Seaworth’s loyalty has cost him. Suddenly, the finger bones seems such a trivial thing, such a small price to pay. How old were Stannis and Steffon? _Not old enough to die,_ a treacherous voice murmurs in his mind, _not old enough to die for you._ And Marya? What did Davos call her? _The best woman in the world._ Stannis had never met her but he had never doubted it. Now he will never know.

His vision tilts and he sits down heavily, staring at the backs of his hands. Black brothers occasionally bustle past him, but none disturb him. None would dare disturb him, and he is grateful. He does not know what he will say to Lord Seaworth. He has no talent with words. He feels as useless now as he did on that day, a lifetime ago, when he could only watch as his mother and father lost their lives on a ship of the damned out in the bay. Back then, he cried. He remembers the taste of the tears as they crept over his lips and he remembers Maester Cressen’s hands, gentle and warm on his shoulders. For a wild moment, he wishes the old man was here now; he always knew what to say, always knew what to do. But the maester is dead, another casualty in his war.

_Another man who showed me nothing but loyalty. Another man who suffered for it._

He cannot cry now. He is not sure he even remembers how to. Besides, they are not is tears to cry. He is not even sure he has a right to the unexpected feeling of grief which has caught his throat in an iron grip. It feels alien and it feels too big. When he thought Lord Davos was dead, he could quell it, make himself believe that it was necessary, that it was his duty. It is different now that the grief belongs to another. It is different now that duty is not involved.

He stands slowly and collars a brother, who tells him that the Lady Melisandre has Lord Davos in a room lower down in the Lord Commander’s tower. He still does not know what to say when he reaches the door. He knocks and the Red Woman appears, her eyes bright with something he cannot identify. A fire burns in the grate, high and warming.

“Lord Seaworth sleeps, my king,” she says, “He needs to rest. I shall watch him.”

“Leave him,” Stannis rasps, “I shall stay.”

“My king-”

“Get out, woman!” he snaps, pushing past her, “Attend to Lord Snow if you must help someone.”

She nods, casting a glance full of – pity? – at Lord Seaworth’s sleeping form. She knows. Stannis wonders how, but then she is gone and he is closing the door. He does not mean to be short with her. He hopes she knows, he hopes she knows that he must be alone. He cannot have an audience, not even her.

Lord Seaworth lies in the large bed, covered by several heavy coverlets. He is still shivering though, and so Stannis adds another. Lord Seaworth’s tattered clothing is folded neatly on the only chair in the room and Stannis removes it, placing it on the spindly table. He adds his own gloves to the pile and pulls the chair to the bedside.

He has never been a comfort at the sickbed and he is grateful that Davos sleeps now. His Lord Hand looks ill; he is pale, thinner than the last time he saw him, too many grey hairs on his head and in his beard. He breathes awkwardly and a sheen of sweat covers his face, despite the shivers. His hand, his damaged one, lies on top of the coverlet and before Stannis can stop himself, he has reached out and taken it. It is hot to the touch but it is solid. It is real. This is not one of those dreams. Davos is really here. He is really alive.

On the small cabinet sit a bowl of water and a cloth. Stannis may never have been a desirable sickbed companion but he knows what must be done. He sits and tends, cooling Lord Seaworth’s burning face with the damp cloth. He summons a steward to change the water and ignores the man’s look of surprise. He sits for hours, long into the night, and still Lord Davos does not wake. He stays. He has nothing to offer this man except honesty, the honesty he always keeps so carefully guarded. He hopes it might be enough, one day, when the grief has passed.

Around dawn, Lord Davos’ fever breaks and his breathing eases and he seems for a long while to be on the edge of waking. Stannis has once more taken his hand; he does not know what else to do. Lord Davos has saved him three times, three times when it all could have ended so swiftly. Now it is his turn to try and save Davos and he is woefully unprepared. He curses his own limitations, curses the words that will not come.

_Even Renly knew how to talk to people._

The thought is a sudden one, one that tastes of bile, and he is still thinking on it when Davos’ eyes open.

“Your grace,” he whispers, “What-”

“Quiet,” he tries to say gently, “You must drink. You have had a fever.”

He cups a hand behind Lord Seaworth’s head and helps him sit high enough to swallow from the cup of water he holds in his other hand. He makes him drink the whole cup before he lets him down.

“Your grace, why are you here tending me?”

“Because I wish to.”

There is silence and Davos closes his eyes. Stannis almost wishes he is going back to sleep, but then that voice comes again.

“Your grace, Lord Manderly-”

“I know. The wildling woman told me. We need not speak of it at this very moment. You must rest.”

“Did she tell you of- of the- the drag-”

Davos cannot speak. A tear runs down his face from under his closed eye, and then there is another and another and Stannis can only watch uselessly whilst his onion knight, his brave and true man, breaks down in front of him. He has never been able to deal with Shireen’s tears, on the rare occasions that they come. He knows even less what to do here with the tears of a grown man who has lost all but one member of his family.

_Tears I have caused._

He reaches once more for Davos’ hand and holds it tightly between his own, an anchor as much for himself as it is for the other man. Davos’ shortened fingers curl around his own and his other hand slips from under the blanket to cover his eyes.

“I am sorry, your grace,” he sobs, “I am sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologise for, my Lord Davos,” Stannis grinds out from between his teeth, “Nothing.”

Davos does not cry for long. He is not a man to do so, regardless of his grievance. He also does not relent his hold on his king’s hand. Perhaps he has forgotten it is there. Eventually he opens his eyes, full of sorrow so clear that even Stannis can identify it, and fixes them on Stannis’ face.

“The boy? Is he safe?”

“He is,” Stannis says, “It seems I am in your debt once more, my onion knight. Once again you bring food to the starving man.”

“It is my duty.”

Davos believes that too. He believes he has done nothing more than any other man would do.

“Duty or otherwise, you have proven yourself my loyal man once again.”

Davos does not reply and Stannis looks down at their joined hands. He must say something. He can taste the words, the words he needs. They are on his tongue and they are as far away as they have always been. But this is Davos Seaworth; if any man has ever earned his words, it is him.

“My Lord Davos, I am sorry. I am sorry for your – loss.”

Davos’ eyes snap open and he looks at Stannis, as though he is looking right into his heart. As though he is searching for the truth in the words.

Stannis licks his lips and chokes out, “I shall not forget this. I shall not forget your service or your sacrifice and I shall not forget them.”

Davos’ grip tightens and he turns his face away. There is silence and Stannis fears he has once again said the wrong thing. He is paralysed until Lord Davos turns back. A fresh tear track shines on his cheek but he is not crying.

“Thank you, your grace,” he says, voice stronger than Stannis’ sounded in his own head, “Thank you.”

Light with relief, if not with anything more, Stannis slumps forward in his chair and rests his forehead on their joined hands. It is a weak gesture but this is Davos. Here he does not have to pretend. For a brief second, Davos rests his other hand on the back of Stannis’ head and Stannis has the strangest notion that he is suddenly the one being comforted.

He lifts his head quickly and meets Davos’ eyes, eyes still full of grief but also something else…perhaps…gratitude? Perhaps his poor, pathetic attempt at consolation had some effect after all.

“When I win my kingdom, my onion knight, it shall be in her name,” he says suddenly, surprised at his own words even as he says them, “No one else shall dare forget the name Seaworth.”

Davos takes a shuddering breath and runs a thumb over Stannis’ knuckles. There are no more words.

_There do not need to be._


End file.
